


Little Snaxburg's Big Problem

by zombified_queer



Category: Bugsnax (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Ending B, F/F, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: It's a normal small town. Or, how to get your head bitten off by sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.
Relationships: Eggabell Batternugget/Elizabert Megafig
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Little Snaxburg's Big Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Big Trouble in Small Town Snaxburg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29804172) by [zombified_queer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer). 



“Wow, uh,” the mechanic looks at the journalist’s tires. “These are really flat.”

“Thanks, um, Fiddlepie?”

“Filbo,” the mechanic offers a paw. 

The journalist shakes it. “So what now.”

“Well, um, you could spend the night at the hotel in town? It’s kinda old but it’s really comfortable,” Filbo rambles, hooking up the car to be towed into town. “I could give you a lift!”

The journalist stares up the road, toward the town. It’s rural, small, a little warm glow in the valley. And behind them is the highway, all dark asphalt and regrets.

“I think I’d like that, Filbo.” The journalist climbs into the tow truck.

* * *

The hotel is old. It looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 70’s. The armchairs in the lobby look comfortable, but covered in a layer of dust.

The woman at the counter is at least seventy. 

“Hello, sorry to bother you,” the journalist says. 

“I know who you are.” The woman fixes them with a cold stare. “A room for one?”

“Yes, please.”

She nods and gets a room key, handing it over. “It’s yours for the week. Bad luck, that road.”

“Did, um, Filbo call ahead?”

“Yes.”

The journalist swallows down their urge to press the issue. Filbo didn’t make any calls on the drive up. The journalist didn’t even see a mobile phone on him.

“Thanks,” the journalist says. 

“Sleep well.”

The journalist studies the key. Room 201. They shrug, heading for the stairs.

“Stay out of the third floor, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Um. I will?”

Shelda keeps that cold, aloof stare on the journalist, boring holes in their back. It’s awkward. It’s creepy. It’s how small towns are sometimes. Everyone knows everything about everyone.

Room 201 is right next to the stairs. The journalist yawns while unlocking the door. No exploring tonight, just rest. 

They set their rucksack down next to the bed. And then they flop down. Into a cloud of dust. Coughing, they go to open the window.

It’s nailed shut.

Weird. But not unheard of. Must be a safety thing. Even if the nails jutting out of the windowframe don’t seem all that safe. 

The journalist sighs, too tired to deal with small town weirdness. They get comfortable in the bed and, after a few sneezes, manage to nod off.

* * *

It’s a dream.

The journalist is seated on a velvet couch across from a Grumpus. No. Not a Grumpus. It’s a half-shaped mound of snack foods. Burger grease, icing, and melted ice cream slough into a puddle. 

**You’re really lucky to be here, it says, voice rumbling like an earthquake. It’s so rare we get fresh blood.**

The journalist asks a half-formed question.

**Well, someone’s gotta make the fertilizer for the farm, new bones for Triff to dig up and collect. Filbo’s gonna miss you, though. It’s always hardest on him.**

It sounds like they’re going to kill you.

**Are you scared? We’ll make it quick. You won’t even know what hit you.**

The journalist sits up out of sleep with a gasp and reaches out a paw, stopping the bedside lamp from falling on them. This wasn’t a simple earthquake. This lamp was thrown. There’s warmth on the cold porcelain, leftover from someone else’s paws. 

They set the lamp down, getting out of bed to check the door. It’s closed. Locked, too.

But the window’s open, curtain billowing in a summer breeze. All the nails have been ripped out of the frame. The journalist looks around, wondering where they went. There’s none on the carpet. 

They were just sleepwalking. Maybe sleep hotel-improving too. 

The window groans as they close it. The journalist closes the windows. When they lay back down in bed, they feel something sharp jabbing their neck.

The nails. They were placed under their pillow. While they were sleeping.

The journalist decides to sleep in the armchair for the rest of the night.

* * *

"So what's the damage?" the journalist picks up wrenches off a counter, inspecting them. Dusty. Everything's dusty in this town, it seems. "How soon can it be road-ready?"

"Well, um..." Filbo shrugs. "We'll have to order the tires from the next town over and Snorpy--he really handles repairs--said there's something wrong with the brakes? So maybe two weeks?"

"Two weeks. I have to get back home and back to work!"

"Sorry." Filbo shrinks into himself. "That's how it is around here. Small town, y'know?"

The journalist takes a deep breath. "Sure. Did you, uh, figure out what I hit?"

Filbo waves the journalist over. There's a small tray, metal. The sort you'd use for organs, the journalist muses. In it are six bent, rusted nails. Exactly like the ones the journalist found in their bed last night.

"You, uh, don't look so good, buddy. C'mere, sit down. Want some water? You look like the heat's getting to you.

* * *

The town's not just small, it's tiny. Of course there's Snorpy's mechanic shop where Filbo works. And the hotel.

There's a general store, a barber shop, a pharmacy. But that's about it for shopping.

On one end of town is a cemetery, well-kept and lovely if not for the stones. At the other end of town, there's the farm and ranch Filbo drove past last night. Fields of wheat and the scent of bovine manure.

But no one seems to be out, even on a sunny summer afternoon like this.

The journalist stops into the pharmacy, just for something to do. It's neat, well-stocked. Almost over-stocked.

"Can I help you?" The Grumpus seems already annoyed. But then they stand a little straighter, even smile. "I mean...you are the guest we've all heard about."

"Uh. Hi." The journalist gives an awkward one-pawed wave. "Sorry. Just looking."

"You have good bone structure, don't you?"

"Um?" The journalist looks at a pack of gummy grumps, then at some cherry sours. "Do you make it a point to compliment people's bones?"

"Considering I used to teach anatomy, yes. I do. Good bone structure is very important."

Oh they're nuts. Every small town has to have one, the journalist muses. They settle on the gummy grumps. And a soda. Something cool on this hot day.

"So why aren't you teaching?" the journalist asks.

"Do you see a lot of pups running around?" They shrug. "Of course, if people settle down and start families, perhaps they'll open the school again."

The journalist gets their wallet out of their rucksack.

"Oh no. Take them. You're a guest."

The journalist spots a nametag. Fizzlebean. "Thanks? I mean I feel bad."

"Don't. You're doing us a great service in being here."

The journalist shrugs, taking their gummp grumps and soda. Can't argue, but it feels wrong. Once they're outside the pharmacy, they give it a taste-test. Nothing salty.

After thirty minutes of wandering around, they don't feel any different. So it's not laced with anything.

They find a nice, shady spot under a willow tree to eat their snacks and drink their soda. It's nice. Peaceful.

Too quiet.

There should be bugs and birds chirping. It's summer. Where's all the little animals? The mice and the rabbits?

The journalist listens, more aware of the silence. Their soda hisses. The bag of gummies rustles. But there's no chirping.

It’s creepy. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, a chill runs up their spine.

“Y’alright there?”

The journalist jumps. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.” The grumpus offers a paw to the journalist. “I hope nodding off in cemeteries isn’t a hobby of yours.”

“No,” the journalist says, waving her off. “It’s not. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about!” She keeps grinning at them. “I’m the caretaker. Triffany Lottablog.”

“Nice to meet you.”

"Oh you're that new Grumpus in town. How nice!" Triffany nods. "Filbo's told us all about you."

"Did he?"

"You're probably not used to small town gossip." Triffany nods. "Word spreads fast."

"I gathered that."

"Well, how long are you staying?" 

"A couple weeks, it seems." The journalist sips their soda. "Car trouble."

"Since you're in town, feel free to head down to the orchard. It's my husband's. Grab some apples when the mood strikes."

"Thanks."

She gives them one last appraising look and the smile falters. Then she nods and heads off to tend to some of the more crooked headstones. But she keeps looking over at them. 

The journalist gathers their trash to throw away later. And they leave the cemetery.

Triffany stops gardening to watch them. She's not smiling.

* * *

They hop the wooden fence into the apple orchard in the sticky late afternoon. There's no bugs buzzing here either. Just a gentle breeze rustling the branches.

The apples are red and ripe. Tantalizing. The journalist reaches up to pluck one, just one, and bites into it.

Juice flows over their lips and chin.

"What in tarnation--Oh." The Grumpus lowers his hoe and tips his straw hat. "Stranger."

"Sorry. Triffany sent me. Said it was okay."

The Grumpus nods. "Name's Wambu Troubleham. Farmer."

"Sorry for breaking in."

Wambus shrugs and puts a paw on one of the tree trunks. "These old things produce more'n we can eat. Apples year-round."

"Thanks."

"Stranger." Wambus tips his hat. "Stay a while and take things easy."

"I am on vacation..." Another bite of apple. 

Wambus nods. "See? Ain't nothin' to worry about."

Another bite of apple. The journalist finds it odd Wambus doesn't take one for himself. But he could be tired of them for the day.

There's a stilted awkwardness to the farmer. Like he's not present. It's almost the same as talking to a scarecrow.

"I'll, um, be on my way."

"Don't be a stranger, now, Stranger." Wambus keeps a blank stare on the journalist as they go.

* * *

That dream again. The snack-monster's looking worse for the wear, more of it melting away. The velvet couch is looking stiff with sugar, crusted with all these melted things meshing together. The journalist vaguely wonders if it’s painful to melt like that.

**Well...Most folks don't dream twice. Not me, anyway.**

The journalist asks, Why me?

**You got grit. And we're not too picky. Any new blood will do.**

There's no pups around town.

**No.** The snack-thing stares at them curiously. **There's not.**

Why?

**Folks don't want kids.** The monster shrugs, a sort of shuddering. Cake dislodges from its body, plopping on the floor. **Simple.**

They'd be eaten, the journalist suggests.

**Pups are more trouble than they're worth. Maybe you can change their minds.**

It laughs. A wet, gurgling sound. 

**But I'm starting to like you, new blood. I might reconsider and offer a place here in Snaxburg.**

The journalist considers it. But how would you eat?

**Lottery. We've done it once before.** The monster tilts its head. melted icing flowing over its shoulder. **Best wake up now.**

The journalist wakes slowly to warm sunshine in their eyes. Glancing at the clock, it's almost noon. They turn over, away from the sun blinding them. 

It couldn't hurt to wander around a bit.

They come down, into the lobby.

"You're sleeping in like a local," Shelda notes. "Good."

"I keep odd hours," the journalist justifies.

She stares at them. It's a blank stare. She's not looking at them but through the journalist. They wave a paw before heading out for the day.

"Oh!"

Filbo almost collides with the journalist. "Hey, buddy!"

"Filbo."

"I was thinking, um, you haven't met the mayor of Snaxburg yet, huh?"

"Who's the mayor?"

Filbo nods. He tilts his head, listening to something that's not there. "Well, um, I could take you to her place. It's really swanky but she's so nice."

"Who's the mayor, Filbo?"

"Lizbert," Filbo explains with a grin. "Lizbert Megafig."

The journalist pauses. "I thought she went missing."

Filbo starts walking down the road, toward the mechanic shop. The journalist follows.

"Yeah, well, she just kinda...took her wife and settled down here."

"Here? In the middle of nowhere." The journalist glances at Filbo skeptically.

"Well, it was a lot less back then." Filbo shrugs. "One trailer with a well and a generator. And then we all just kind of...settled, I guess? I've been here so long I don't even remember it."

The tow truck's parked outside of the garage. The door to the actual garage is closed, but there's industrial sounds. Grinding of metal on metal, power tools. The journalist hopes their car is in good enough condition to drive. And soon.

They hop into Filbo's truck.

The drive up the dirt road is full of potholes and bumps. Filbo takes it slow, but every little pebble seems to throw the truck around.

"Sorry. We're working on that. Should be done by next week."

"Lots of, um, work around here," the journalist points out. "You sound like you need extra paws."

"It'd be nice," Filbo admits. "But we're not really in a spot to build more houses. Something to do with water? Or electrical? I'm not sure. Lizbert knows all about it, though."

The truck turns down another dirt road, one encircled by willows. The trees obscure the rest of town. Studying the path, the journalist would have never thought this road existed.

“Oh. Yeah. Lizbert and her wife are really private people. They trust us to handle most things.”

“I see.”

“They’re good people.”

The journalist doesn’t answer, but nods. They’ll trust Filbo’s judgement.

The truck rolls to a stop in front of a decent-sized house. Not the mansion the journalist was envisioning. But it does have a second story and a storm cellar.

* * *

The ceiling fan does nothing to really cool the room, just moves the same balmy air around the living room.

Lizbert studies the journalist. It’s not the blank stare other people give. It’s more appraising and not cold. Calculating but with emotion behind it.

“More lemonade?” Lizbert asks, reaching for the pitcher. 

“No thanks.” The journalist has barely touched their glass, ice cubes melted down to a watery layer. They take a sip. “So...Filbo says there’s problems with putting more houses out here.”

Lizbert nods, refilling her own glass. “Rural towns can be rough. We have to do most things ourself. Infrastructure takes time.”

“I could be a nice little town. It’s quiet. Easygoing.”

“And we like to keep it that way.” Lizbert glances at the journalist. “I like to keep it that way. For Bell.”

“Your wife.”

Lizbert nods. “Town’s doctor.”

There’s a pause in the conversation. Stilted. Awkward. In the other room, Eggabell and Filbo are catching up on small-town gossip in hushed voices. 

“Y’thinking about staying?” Lizbert asks. “We could use a newspaper of our own. It’d be easier than relying on word of mouth.”

“It’s very generous.” The journalist studies the glass of lemonade. It’s real. Fresh. There’s a single seed at the bottom, nestled in the last bits of undissolved sugar. “But I have a job back in New Grump City. I think my boss would be pissed if I just...vanished.”

Something glints in Lizbert’s eye. It’s not cordial. It’s colder than that. Freezing the journalist’s marrow in their bones. 

“No one just vanishes,” Lizbert says. “We’re exactly where we need to be.”

In the other room, Eggabell and Filbo laugh. 

“Still...I need to get home as soon as possible. This vacation’s just...an accident.”

“Filbo told me. Shame about the car. We’ll have to get Triffany and Wambus to help with the roads again.”

The journalist takes another sip of lemonade, just to do something. The whole conversation feels awkward, dreamlike.

“Do you dream?” Lizbert asks, unprompted.

“What?”

“Most people dream more vividly out here,” Lizbert explains. “So? Do you dream?”

"I guess so."

Lizbert nods. "Small town perks."

"Yeah." The journalist studies the lemon seed at the bottom of their glass. "If only we could all be so lucky."

Filbo and Eggabell come back from the kitchen, both grinning. Filbo's carrying a tray of desserts, setting it down on the coffee table.

There's four different kinds of cookies. Two different types of cake. A couple things that look like the little maple sugar cakes the journalist keeps in their desk at work.

"Something wrong, buddy?" Filbo asks, taking a jam-filled cookie. "Not hungry?"

"I'm alright, I think."

"Oh c'mon," Lizbert prods. "One snack won't spoil dinner."

But even as they bite into the sweets, something rustles under their fur. It's something on--no, under--their skin.

"No." The journalist says. "I'm not hungry."

Filbo and Lizbert drop their grins. It's cold. Some sort of rejection.

"That's alright," Eggabell soothes. "Not everyone's used to a home-grown meal."

The journalist doesn't even think to correct her.

* * *

Tonight's the new moon. It's dark, the stars doing so little and so obscured by the willows. It's still and silent, not even a breeze rustling through the branches.

And then they hear it. A low, deep rumble. Like a stomach. 

The journalist sits up in bed. 

The little clock on the nightstand blares, in red numbers, it's a little after midnight.

That low rumbling continues. Like something starved.

Nothing rattles on the nightstand like an earthquake. It's eerily silent except the low roaring.

The journalist gets out of bed. There should be no roaring. This doesn't make sense.

There's voices in the hall.

"They're sleeping. And they sleep like the dead."

"Yeah, but, um, Shelda? What if they're not asleep?"

"They will be."

Shelda. And Filbo.

The journalist considers their options. The bed's attached to the wall. But the armchair in the room isn't.

It sounds like they're right outside the door. The journalist wedges the armchair in front of the door. There's a dull thunk of wood on wood.

Someone in the hall inhales. A sharp gasp. Shock, maybe.

Shelda's keys rattle like bones.

"Hey, buddy?" Filbo calls. "We're, um, just checking up on you. We thought we heard a noise."

A lie. Unless they can hear the roar too.

There's nowhere else to go. The journalist struggles to get the window open.

Beneath are rocks and brambles. It'll hurt to jump. They don't want to think about what'll happen if they don't.

Thud.

Just a sprained wrist from landing wrong and some scratches. If they can get out of this town, it'll be a blessing.

Filbo's truck is parked outside the hotel. The journalist gets inside, closing the doors and locking themself inside. No keys. With a sprained wrist, it'll be hard to hotwire but--

"Buddy." The lock clicks. "C'mon out. You should meet someone."

"Filbo."

"Out." Filbo's voice is cold. Authoritative. Any of that awkwardness that made the journalist trust him is gone. "C'mon now."

The journalist steps out. Filbo gives them a shove down the road to Lizbert's.

"Can't we drive?"

"No." Another shove. "Get moving."

The closer they get to Lizbert’s home, the louder the rumbling becomes. 

The journalist trips in the dark. Every pothole and rock that'd been uncomfortable on the drive up is ten times worse on paw.

"Filbo."

"Keep walking. Stop talking."

When they've finished tripping up the road to Lizbert and Eggabell's house, Lizbert's already waiting for them. She's sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. In the dark.

She doesn't move. "Take them to the well."

The journalist looks at Filbo, who grabs them by the arm, dragging them around back.

The well's seen better days. It's a dilapidated, lopsided lump in the ground. The rocks are crumbling, covered in moss.

The hole itself is dark. There's a rumbling that makes the journalist's ears hurt. Something warm and wet seeps down their left cheek.

Filbo, with no warning, shoves them. The journalist's paws reach out for something, anything to hold onto. They grab only the empty air.

Crack.

And things go dark.

* * *

It's sticky and warm. Not at all the watery grave or cold earth they expected. Their head hurts. A pang that makes it hard to keep their eyes open. 

There's a dull roaring sound. Like water.

Feeling their way through the sticky, warm tunnels, they realize this labyrinth is too big for a simple well.

Wiping their mouth, something sweet hits their tongue. The pain's gone And now they can look up.

The well's there, a layer of bricks only a couple feet down. Then a layer of soil.

And then it's a layer of perfectly preserved candy, burgers, fries, cake all crammed together like the layers of a rock.

The journalist sniffs the liquid on their paw. Cherries. Saccharine cherry scent. It turns their stomach. 

"Filbo!"

No face appears at the well. Not that it would matter. It's dark beyond the well.

But these snack foods emit a glow the journalist doesn't like.

There's nowhere to go but deeper. The journalist sloshes through, slipping on candy the whole time.

They become aware of two things. 

First, they're descending. It's a slight incline but noticeable. Despite that, this runny syrup keeps flowing out of whatever's deeper down. A backwards current.

Second, the dull roar they've been hearing is getting louder. It's decidedly the gurgle of a hungry stomach.

They dread the end of the tunnel. Maybe it ends in candy teeth.

It feels like hours of wading through syrup and slipping on candy. Their skin begins to itch and burn.

But they make it to the end. 

There's a velvet sofa. With nothing else to do, they take a seat.

Something shambles out of the ground, gathering mass as it moves. It's some kind of living snack golem. Burger grease and melted ice cream drip down its body, even as it takes a seat across from them.

**Well?** The voice is a wet croak in the journalist's head. **How would you like to stay?**

"Do I have a choice?"

**Yes. You do. So pick. Those enzymes wait for no one, just so you're aware.**

“No.”

The creature regards the journalist solemnly. Like they’re not the first to make that choice. The caustic chemicals sink deeper into the journalist’s fur, melting skin from bone.

**This won’t be very pleasant, I’m afraid.**

The journalist closes their eyes. Nothing can be more unpleasant than the constant itch under their skin. Nothing.

Crunch.

It’s bone and blood, but a meal all the same. The creature regards the headless corpse the way one regards a particularly choice burger. It’s over in a few more bites.

* * *

The sun rises over the house. It’s quiet and calm. Eggabell pours Lizbert a cup of coffee, but keeps her eyes trained on the well. Sometimes, it regurgitates. Like it did with Eggabell. But this time, nothing comes up.

“Bell?” Lizbert puts her paws on Eggabell’s shoulders, kissing her cheek.

“Sorry. Was thinking about the garden. It needs to be watered.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No. I want to get some fresh air this morning.”

“Alright.” Lizbert nods. “If you’re sure.”

The watering can’s been shoved to the back, behind boxes of nails and pieces of old wood. They’ll have to lay out another trap for their next meal. But Eggabell doesn’t linger. She takes the watering can and begins to fill it.

It’s going to be a nice day today.


End file.
